Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe by Tedd Hawks (the reading list book .TXT) 📕

have discovered things this morning whichalso appear to be very important.”

            “Myword!” Petrarch proudly smiled. Between Crockett’s faint-free behavior, and hiscalm, logical manner in dealing with Lucinda’s note, he felt his youngapprentice was growing up from moment to moment.

The grief about Bixbyfaded quickly. He shot up into the air with a gleeful shout. “Well, my boy, letus proceed logically. I’ll do jumping jacks and you state the facts!” Petrarchhopped in the air, his heavy arms flapping up and down.

            Crockettsteepled his fingers; he spoke authoritatively. “We know that Bixby Hawsfefferdied one week ago in the river. He drowned, despite being in good health and adecent swimmer. Brontë mentioned there were gunshots in the afternoon, butthere was never any correlation between them and the death of her father.”

            “Augustshoots several times a day. A gunshot is not something importantly noted inthis house.” Petrarch was already so out of breath from the effort of thejumping jacks that the words came out between gasps.

            “Twoweeks before his death, Bixby came to you with the will. But it wasn’t the realwill, the truth; it was a softened version that didn’t come to the fulladmission that everything he had was gone.”

            “Huuffffff,”Petrarch groaned.

            “Upongoing home, he made a second document which revealed the truth but,” Crockettsuddenly grew excited, “he wanted you here!”

            Petrarchgave up his exercises and sat on the bed. He smiled broadly and attempted tospeak, but nothing came out. He was panting heavily; the effort of sittingerect was burdensome.

            “Whatthis means, Petrarch, my dear friend, is that you are vital to…whatever it isthat’s going on.”

            “Water...?”Petrarch mouthed.

            “Youthink water is the key? The river? The drowning?”

            “Drink,”Petrarch groaned, making a grotesque face.

            “Poison!”Crockett started. “Bixby was poisoned…It fits in some ways. It would explainhow he wasn’t able to swim to safety.”

            “Me!”

            “Yes!Petrarch, I know. It’s vital that you are here but why? Is it Lucinda’s note?Or is it the key? Why would the key be so important, though? We went throughthat already…”

            “Get.Me. Water.” Petrarch flopped back on the bed, with a final great exhalation.Crockett jumped to attention and fled from the room. He had a glass of water byhis own bedside. Once procured, he returned to Petrarch’s collapsed form andforced him to take a sip.

            Ittook time for the old man to regain his bearings. After a deal of huffing,puffing, and wheezing, he was able again to sit upright and focus on theconversation at hand.

            “Sorry,my dear boy. I get a little too overenergized during exercises every now andagain. Jumping jacks used to be my specialty, but now…” Petrarch raised his armand shook the loose skin on its underside. “You wouldn’t believe I was the sameman from all those years ago.”

            Crockettnodded, the pieces of the puzzle box in his head sliding into new patterns. Therewas a hypothesis forming in his mind, a whisper of an idea. This meeting withPetrarch, his conversation with Brontë, the sword, the paintings in thebasement, the wildness of the idea of poison, all came together to form abizarre, nebulous solution. The idea was perhaps plausible…but not worthdiscussion, not at this stage. If it weren’t true, he’d look as if he were completelydaft, creating theories from the ether. He had no desire to look like a lunaticin the eyes of either Petrarch or Brontë, his master and the woman he’d developeda warm affection for over the course of the past several days, especially sinceBrontë already knew he was rather skittish.

            But,if what he thought were true, Brontë’s mission with August would be a dead end.He suspected that August returned the family vault key to Corinthiana, who putit securely away in a place only a few would know and be able to access.

            AsCrockett evaluated all the clues, Petrarch eyed him interestedly.

            “Areyou all right, Crockett? You seem lost in thought.”

            Crockettjerked from his scheming reverie. “I am,” he said emphatically. “I think anoveractive imagination is all.” He continued, “I haven’t told you yet,Petrarch, but I think Brontë and I found the murder weapon—or at least itssibling.”

            Petrarchstarted. “Where? How?”

            “Wefound a sword in the family vault that matches the weapon used against Beatrice.It was a bit of a lucky find—the sun caught the arms collection at just theright moment.”

            “You’resure?”

            “Brontë’sgoing to ask her father what he knows. We think he was the last one to have thekey to the vault with all the weapons.”

            Petrarchgrunted. “Another key, another turn in the labyrinth.”

            Doubtinghis own meandering theory, Crockett turned to Petrarch. “Do you think it couldbe August?” he asked.

            “Augüst,”Petrarch said distractedly. “It could be. There is motive—his belief in thefamily fortune. He also carried the emotional weight of being trapped in thisold house with June’s family for many, many years; that kind of stewing wouldmake anyone homicidal. He could have shot Bixby Hawsfeffer in his boat andthought he’d gotten away with it. Then, of course, Corinthiana delayedeverything, meaning that the money kept slipping from his grasp. If BixbyHawsfeffer confided in him that I have a second copy of the tomb key, thekilling of Beatrice could have been committed to draw that out from me andcomplete the burial so that he could finish the affair once and for all.”

            “Thatall makes sense. He also knew the house well enough to plan the séance scheme.”

            “Andhe’s a sportsman. He’d know how to gut an animal like poor Beatrice.”

            Thewild theory Crockett cultivated earlier, vanished in the light of this cold,hard logic. Without thinking, he chuckled to himself.

            “Somethingfunny, my boy?”

            “Ihad an idea earlier, a fatuous one. When we lay out the facts, it seems evenmore so.” Crockett rose from his seat next to Petrarch and paced to the window.“I think Kordelia might be infecting me with oddness.”

            “Inthis house oddness is contagion.” Petrarch lifted himself up and waddled besidehis young apprentice. “It seems like we have a buttoned-up idea, but I think weare merely seeing a mountain peak thrusting up from a gray mist. There areseveral individuals in this house who have an air of mystery about